by Susan Murray
“Yes, sire, not far from the eastern gate.”
Hence Stanton’s failure to report before they advanced on the citadel. And the mocking smile on his cousin’s face at the end took on new significance. “Damn Tresilian. She must have been long gone by the time I secured the citadel.” He paced over to the window and stared out. “Despatch another search party to cover the road east. And prepare the old woman for more questioning.”
“Tonight, sire?”
“Of course, tonight. No amount of sleep will render that one a beauty.”
“It seems unlikely she knows anything, sire.”
“I will oversee the interrogation in person.”
Hames bowed and backed out of the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Alwenna woke with a scream dying on her lips. She sat up in her bed, rigid with horror. Not Wynne. How could he? There was a hammering against her door.
“What is it? Are you hurt?” Weaver.
“No.” She tried to gather her wits. “I’m fine. Just a minute.” She drew a blanket over her shoulders, pulling it round to cover her shift, and padded barefoot to the door. The flagstones struck chill against her feet as she made her way across the unfamiliar room. She slid back the bolt and peered out.
Glowing embers in the dying fire gave off just enough light to see Weaver standing there in his shirtsleeves, fastening the ties of his leggings about his waist. “What happened? Another nightmare?”
“No.”
Weaver moved over to the hearth. “I’ll kindle the fire, else you’ll catch a chill.” He stirred the embers into life and added wood, setting the kettle over it.
Alwenna crossed the room and perched on the end of the table nearest the fire, resting her feet on the bench. “I think it was the sight.”
“You’re no stranger to nightmares, my lady. Why would this time be any different?” He straightened up and faced her once more, his expression guarded.
“Nightmares never make sense. But this… I saw Wynne. Vasic was torturing her, he…” She shivered.
Weaver folded his arms. “My lady–”
“This was real. You heard Gwydion – he knew what I’d already seen. Did you tell him? That I saw Vasic kill Tresilian?”
“Of course not. I heard Gwydion: those were the ravings of a crazy old man.”
“How can you speak so of the dead?”
“My lady, if you’d seen as many men die as I have you’d set less store by their last words.”
It was clear he still thought her a cosseted fool. “Disbelieve me if you will. Vasic’s torturing Wynne to find out where I am. There must be something we can do.”
“Would you have me besiege the citadel single-handed? She’d be beyond help long before I could reach Highkell.”
“We shouldn’t have let her go off alone.”
“She made her own choice.”
“You are so callous.” The man was impossible. “What if it’s a vision of the future? We might be able to save her.”
Weaver took a couple of steps. “You’d have me ride all that way because you had a bad dream? I swore I’d see you safely through this. That comes first.”
“Very fine, I’m sure, to hide behind your duty.”
Weaver planted both hands on the table beside her, leaning face to face with her. “I’m sorry, my lady, if you’re not best pleased by our situation, but right now we must play a waiting game. Goddess knows I’ve no appetite for such work.”
Alwenna resisted the urge to draw back. “Do you imagine I have? None of this is my choosing – trailing all the way out here with you, leaving Highkell, leaving Wynne – none of it. I know what duty is. Even my marriage wasn’t my choice.”
“You don’t seem to have managed the business so ill, my lady.”
“And in your eyes even that is a fault. It’s time you found work more to your liking, Weaver.”
His scowl deepened. “You sound as if you mean that.”
“And why not, when you disapprove of every word I say and doubtless every thought I carry in my head as well?”
Weaver withdrew to the fireside, rubbing the back of his neck. “If I do it’s no fault of yours.”
“Then I haven’t been imagining it?”
“It’s time you knew.” Weaver drew a weary breath. “The man I fought at Vorland Pass was a kinsman of yours. He was my commanding officer before he turned coat and joined the Marcher rebellion. I served with him for several years.” His gaze moved to her face. “Sometimes I see his likeness in you.”
“And? I remember nothing of my family there.”
“Then be thankful.” He hesitated. “Most of them were lost in dark mysteries, though none could match Stian’s appetite for evil.”
She’d heard that said often enough at Highkell. If she were to believe what she’d been told, every fault on her part was a result of her father’s family’s influence. “This was what Garrad meant you should tell me?”
Silence stretched between them. Weaver’s expression told her she’d said something wrong. “Garrad doesn’t know the half of it.” Weaver straightened up and walked over to the door that led out to the cloister. He snatched it open, pausing with his hand on the latch. “While he was still my commanding officer, your kinsman… He was the man who killed my wife and our unborn child.” The latch dropped back into place with a sharp clatter as the door closed behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The ashes in the hearth were grey and cold by morning. Weaver hadn’t returned. It was possible he didn’t mean to return – she’d told him to leave, after all. Alwenna set about kindling a new fire with the few sticks that remained. His flint and steel lay where he’d set them down the night before. He must mean to come back at some point, then. Nausea dulled her movements as she stooped over the dry kindling, working to strike a strong enough spark from the flint. She’d watched Weaver do this enough times – surely it wasn’t beyond her.
She heard footsteps outside and behind her the door opened. She twisted round. Weaver stood there, pale and heavy-eyed.
“My lady, you shouldn’t be doing that.” His voice was hoarse.
“I need to learn how.” The realisation that she was unable to complete even so simple a task was humiliating in the extreme.
Weaver pushed the door shut and crossed the room, kneeling beside her. The smell of the brewhouse hit her in a wave of stale beer. No need to ask how he’d spent the night. She battled another rush of nausea and won.
“You hold the flint like this.” He set the flint down on the hearth so it presented an edge to the steel. His hands shook as he fumbled to position the flint just so. Her father’s hands had used to shake that way. Was Weaver another such? She’d begun to think him something more.
“Keep the edge uppermost, that brings the best spark, and strike fast with the steel, like this.” Weaver’s words called her back to the present.
Alwenna sat back on her heels to watch as he demonstrated; his second attempt produced a shower of sparks.
“Set the charcloth here to catch the sparks, and keep some dry tinder ready in your hand.” The shaking of his hands did not seem to interfere with the process as he struck another burst of sparks that set the charcloth smouldering, cupping it in his hands until the tinder began to burn, transferring the smoking handful to the kindling she had set in the grate. To Alwenna’s disgust, smoke began to curl from the kindling within a matter of seconds.
“As simple as that.” If she reached her hand out she’d be able to touch him. Instead she pushed herself to her feet and moved over to the table, brushing fireside dust from her skirts. Weaver was every bit as rough as he looked this morning: a beer-soaked, unshaven commoner who killed without compunction. Who killed with an athletic grace that at once repelled and fascinated her. Who had every reason in the world to hate her.
Weaver added sticks to the fire. “It just takes practice. And dry tinder.” He straightened up. “I’m sorry, my lady, I should have been he
re to do that before now.”
She brushed off the apology with a shrug. “You’re not my nursemaid, why ever should you?” She wasn’t about to tell him how stupidly relieved she was that he’d returned at all.
“I swore to Tresilian I’d–”
It was as if he sought to stand Tresilian between them. And well he might. “Yes, we went through all that last night.”
Weaver stood up. He looked faintly ill. Good. It was self-inflicted, after all. “My lady, I said things then that I ought not have.”
“Why not? You spoke honestly. In all conscience I cannot claim your loyalty in these circumstances. I wonder if Tresilian could require it of you. He must have known.”
“He knew. It all happened years ago, my lady.”
She’d expected him to seize on the excuse to leave. “He told me he trusted you above all others; I confess at the time I was surprised by his choice.”
“And now?” There was a sudden intensity in Weaver’s gaze. Just for a moment. Damped down faster than an unwanted campfire; damped down so fast she doubted she’d seen it at all.
“Now? I realise Tresilian’s judgement was sounder than I guessed.”
“I am honoured, my lady.”
This was no way to convince him to leave.
A knock sounded at the door.
Weaver spun round with a scowl, his hand moving to the hilt of his dagger. “Who is it?”
“Father Garrad.” The latch lifted and the priest stepped inside. “Good morning.” Garrad’s eyes darted between the two of them and he smiled knowingly.
Alwenna felt heat rising in her face. She picked up an empty tankard from the table and turned away to set it by the stone basin in the corner, recovering her composure as Weaver spoke.
“Good morning, father. What can we do for you? Or dare we hope you bring us news from Highkell?”
“Alas no, I have no news for you. But perhaps the two of you have news for me?”
Alwenna faced him again. The priest smiled, but the semblance of warmth did not reach his eyes.
Weaver stepped between them. “What news could we possibly have, cooped up here as we are, father? Will you take a drink with us? Let me make you some kopamid.” Weaver’s manner was all smooth ease now, his annoyance at the interruption vanished. Or so well concealed that Alwenna would have been fooled into thinking she had imagined the flash of irritation. “The Lady Alwenna has determined to master the art of kindling fires.” He glanced at Alwenna. “She makes good progress.”
Alwenna suspected Father Garrad was drawing his own conclusions about the pair of them – highly inaccurate ones.
Father Garrad took a seat at the table as Weaver set the kettle over the fire to boil.
“I heard you had a lively night in the brewhouse, Weaver. What was the celebration? Surely not marking old Gwydion’s passing?”
“I may have drunk a pint or two to set him on his way. But does a man need a reason to drink, father? I never have.”
“So I have heard, Weaver. Your reputation precedes you.”
Weaver smiled. “People love to talk.” His tone reminded Alwenna of the way he had spoken to Stanton that night in the alley. “And most people, when they’re talking, they’re not thinking.”
“And some would say the same about drinkers.” Garrad smiled. “What say you, Lady Alwenna?”
“About what? Talking or drinking?” Alwenna returned smile for smile as she sat down at the far end of the table from Father Garrad. “Too much of either can cause a sore head. Or so I’ve been led to believe.”
“There are certainly a few sore heads in the refectory this morning, whatever the cause.” Garrad leaned back against the wall, setting one arm on the window sill, very much at ease.
Alwenna smiled her court smile. “I confess I was surprised to learn the brethren keep such a large brewhouse here, father.”
“Perhaps you did not know, my lady, that Vorrahan is a safe haven for all travellers to and from the Outer Isles. The founding brethren were granted the land where our precinct now stands on condition they provided appropriate hospitality.”
“A safe haven for which I am most grateful.” She resisted the temptation to cast a meaningful glance around their meagre lodgings. “And I’m sure Weaver is especially appreciative of your hospitality this morning.”
Weaver nodded. “It is as the lady says, father. But with all the travellers who pass through Vorrahan, this lack of news from the east worries me. I am loath to make decisions founded on nothing more substantial than Gwydion’s ramblings.”
“Indeed, it is troubling. But what decisions are to be made? The Lady Alwenna is safe here. You may leave her in our care with a clear conscience; we will ensure she wants for nothing.”
Weaver didn’t reply. Instead he turned to remove the kettle from the heat, then set about brewing the aromatic kopamid.
Alwenna’s stomach clenched at the memory of the scene in the forest when she’d last tasted the spiced drink, but she managed to control her nausea. It was no longer as severe as before. She was aware of a glance from Weaver as he joined them at the table. So, she suspected, was Father Garrad. The priest missed nothing: he was weighing every look, every smile between them. Did he suspect a liaison between them? Or was he simply interested in his visitors? Gwydion had not trusted the man, but they’d been at odds for many years, and the master seer’s judgement had been questionable at best. Weaver had called him a crazy old man and now she was inclined to agree.
Garrad took up the drink Weaver set before him. “Have you no other trade than the sword, Weaver? Something you may work at here on Vorrahan?”
“I’m the son of a ploughman, father. Blades are all I know.”
“We have little use for ploughs here, not when we can sell wool to meet most of our needs. You must be resourceful enough to turn your hand to other skills, elsewise you would not have been made King’s Man.”
“Tresilian and I chanced to be side by side in battle one day, that is all. A happy chance for me. I’d never been so well clothed or fed before that day.”
Garrad sipped his drink. “Lady Alwenna, he does himself an injustice. I suggest you don’t believe a word he says.” The priest did not remain long after that. He took his leave of them, still smiling, leaving most of his drink untouched.
After the door had closed behind their visitor, Alwenna voiced the thought uppermost in her mind. “All those questions – what was he after?”
“To hide his purpose in coming here, I imagine.” Weaver swallowed a mouthful of his drink. “And that purpose – I think – was to find out why I was drowning my sorrows last night. I let you down badly there, my lady. It won’t happen again.”
She shrugged off the apology. “Then he’s learned nothing he didn’t already know.”
“My lady, I think he sees our situation more clearly than we do ourselves.” Weaver twisted the earthenware beaker in his hands.
“Indeed? What do you imagine he sees?”
“Two people with more than enough time on their hands to get up to no good. And that gives us all the more reason to be wary.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“I’m serious, my lady. I suspect where you are concerned he hopes if I’m given enough rope I’ll hang myself and save him the trouble of building a scaffold.”
“Surely not?”
“It would be no great challenge to find a servant to act as chaperone. Men such as Garrad do nothing without a reason. I shan’t oblige him, have no fear. There’s too much at stake.”
Alwenna felt her face redden. “You presume a great deal, Weaver.”
“Is it not better to speak plainly about the risks we face?”
He was right, of course. “Ought we remain here if Father Garrad intends to play cat-and-mouse games with us?”
“I can’t drag you round the country indefinitely, not in your condition. It wouldn’t be right.” Weaver hesitated. “But I’ll admit I’d feel easier knowing the news from H
ighkell. I suspect Garrad is not being entirely frank about that. Ferries are coming and going across the sound several times a day.”
“But local farmers bringing tithes to the brethren, what would they know of war so far from their own fields?”
“More than Father Garrad is telling us: strangers passing through by night, soldiers on scouting missions, dozens of tiny things have meaning. Even a foolish man-at-arms wasting his pay on ale in the brewhouse.” Weaver stood up. “Forgive me for inflicting myself on you in this condition, my lady. It’s high time I rendered myself presentable.” He took up the empty log basket and left Alwenna with her thoughts.
Could Tresilian have been mistaken in entrusting her safety to Father Garrad? It had been Tresilian who insisted she should seek out Gwydion in the first place. Had that been wise? And what had become of her husband: should she be grieving for him? She wouldn’t. Not until rumour confirmed her sight. Until then she could hope she’d been mistaken; that Gwydion had misled her at every turn; that her fears for Wynne were nothing more than nightmares. And until then she could keep the burden of unwanted knowledge Gwydion had bestowed on her in check. If once she believed her sight told her the truth, then so much more would follow in its wake.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Gwydion’s burial took place at sunrise on the third day after his death, according to tradition. The cemetery had been sited on the wind-scoured slope to the north of the precinct, where few trees grew to interrupt the view east over the sound to the mainland.
Alwenna felt lightheaded as she watched the rough coffin being lowered into the ground. At times the sense her mind was too full became overpowering. This was one of those times, made worse by a deep unease: funerals changed things. A dozen years had passed since she stood with Wynne on the battlements at Highkell, watching her parents’ coffins being lowered into the ground. Eight-year-old girls didn’t belong at the graveside, however tragic the circumstances. She and Tresilian had hidden at the foot of the stairs afterwards, listening to the grown-ups deciding her future. Their future.